


The Gentleman of the Lamp

by toomuchplor



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames isn't a worrier by nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gentleman of the Lamp

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [提灯先生（译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/700192) by [MisterJie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterJie/pseuds/MisterJie), [toomuchplor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor)



> Contains references to violence and injury (though none occurs in the course of the story).

When the alarm clock goes off, Arthur doesn’t so much as stir, remaining a shapeless inert lump under the covers on the makeshift bed in the corner of the workspace. Eames looks up from his work, fingers loose and relaxed around the aluminum exacto blade, sharp tip just resting on the surface of the passport photo he’s trimming to size. The alarm chirps on; Arthur is still.

Eames sets down the blade and rises with a little sigh, comes round the table and over to where Arthur is lying. Only the top of his head is visible under the blankets, and that little bit of Arthur is visibly marred by the white of gauze and medical adhesive tape. Eames stops the alarm first and then curls a hand very gently around Arthur’s shoulder; Arthur is not known for his slow and tender awakenings as a matter of course. But Arthur doesn’t budge, still, a warm solid thing under Eames’ touch. Eames tries not to be alarmed at this; only minutes can have passed since Eames could hear soft stertorous breathing under the shuffle of paper and pen immediately occupying his attention.

“Arthur, darling,” Eames says, and squeezes Arthur’s shoulder now, feeling his own heart thump a little worriedly in spite of himself. “Arthur.”

Arthur groans quietly and his shoulder rolls out from under Eames’ touch.

Relieved, Eames can’t prevent himself from hooking his fingers under the blankets’ edge and tugging them down to see Arthur’s face. “The alarm didn’t wake you,” he says by way of explanation.

“Yes it did,” Arthur protests, squinting up at Eames. His right eye looks worse than when he’d gone to bed, puffiness gone from faint pink to a more determined deep purpling on the outside of the socket. There’s still a little dried blood visible under the stubble on his jaw. Head wounds bleed like motherfuckers.

“No, it didn’t,” Eames retorts. “I was the one who turned it off, just now.”

“I heard it,” Arthur insists, voice low and grumpy and quiet.

“Right, okay,” Eames says, straightening up, letting go of the covers. “I’ll set it for another hour, then, hm? Now that we’ve confirmed that you aren’t as yet comatose?”

“Go to bed,” Arthur orders him, eyes sliding shut again. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you want some more paracetemol?” Eames asks. “Water?”

“No,” says Arthur. “Go away.” He shifts against his pillows, impatient for sleep, and as he moves Eames can see that he’s bled through the gauze dressing. The faint stain of red has already darkened, dried, but it needs changing. It — it could probably wait.

“Five minutes,” says Eames, still unsettled by Arthur’s reluctance to wake. He’s not seen a lot of concussions in his lifetime — Eames tends to prefer jobs that run less risk of grievous bodily harm — but like most people who’ve had to tend injuries without the benefit of any real medical training, he’s developed a sort of sixth sense about separating the minor scrapes and bruises from the more serious ones. Eames can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. “I just want to change the bandage.”

“Fuck off,” Arthur says, consonants scraping at the back of his mouth, eyes closed. “M’good.”

“Only be a moment,” Eames answers cheerily, and sits down on the edge of the coffee table next to the cot, reaches for the plastic bag of first aid supplies from the drug store. Its contents are mixed in with the little bits of rubbishy packaging Eames and Cobb had discarded in their haste to see to Arthur’s wound, both of them a little alarmed by the way the blood was running down Arthur’s forearm, hardly checked by the flannel he was pressing to his temple.

Eames finds the box of gauze squares, the roll of tape, the alcohol swabs. He opens one of the swabs and rubs down his hands, even though his skin is already immaculately clean. One can’t forge passports with dirty fingers, but Arthur’s fastidious to a fault.

Eames looks up and sees that Arthur isn’t even awake enough to notice if Eames is cleaning his hands or not, slumped pale against the pillows with one large hand curled loosely against his face. “Keep still,” Eames says, more to rouse Arthur than out of any worry that Arthur might be his usual fidgety self. He reaches over to pick gently at the bits of tape furthest from the bruising. Arthur hisses irritably, eyes opening to slits, mouth grimacing. The tape pulls away and takes a few of the fine hairs at Arthur’s temple with it. Arthur’s tough as hell, but no one’s ever accused him of being a stoic, and he immediately starts bitching.

“Ow, Eames, fuck off,” he says, hand coming up to press the bandage back down, but Eames knocks his fingers out of the way and keeps pulling up on the dressing, steady and slow. As the gauze lifts away Eames can see the dark scabbed line of the cut underneath, uneven and horrible and broken up by crookedly applied butterfly bandages over the worst bits. It’s almost stopped bleeding, a nearly black line, but here and there Eames can still spy flashes of fresh scarlet.

“We should have gotten someone in to stitch this up,” Eames says again, annoyed.

“Sutures leave worse scars,” Arthur says, also repeating himself. “Hurry up, I want to go back to sleep.”

Eames sets the gauze aside and scowls at the wound, the way it’s puffing out the side of Arthur’s forehead. “That fire extinguisher was meant for Dom’s head,” he grouses.

“Yes, and if I hadn’t gotten in the way you’d be torturing him right now instead of me,” Arthur says. “We’re all broken up over this cruel twist of fate, Eames.” He’s more himself now, crabby and put-upon and impatient, which in turn puts Eames more at ease than he’s been since the alarm started beeping a few minutes back.

“I’m just suggesting that your head isn’t necessarily best used as a protective shield for Dominick fucking Cobb,” Eames returns, unable to keep from smirking. He opens a fresh gauze square and lays it over the wound. Arthur hisses again. “Be glad it’s me, darling,” Eames says. “Pickpockets have a light touch, you know.”

“It doesn’t feel light,” Arthur says, wincing, but holding steady. “It feels like — ow! Fucking hell.”

“Nearly done, shh,” Eames says, taping the next side down. “You’ll be really impressed when you realize later that I managed to nick your wallet whilst doing this.”

“Right,” says Arthur, “out of the pocket of my suit jacket all the way across the room. That would be impressive, Mr. Eames.”

“It’s all about directing your attention elsewhere,” Eames says, more and more relaxed by Arthur’s sniping. “For example,” and as he goes to press the last line of tape down over the most bruised part of the bandaged area, Eames ducks in close and kisses the point of Arthur’s jaw.

Arthur’s gaze, when Eames straightens up again, is more amused than irritated. “Did you just try to kiss my subdural hematoma better?”

“Did it work?” Eames asks brightly, ignoring the way his pulse is thumping hard now in his wrists, his throat, just like it was leaping in the moments after Arthur got hit and went down like a sack of flour, before Eames got to him and turned him over and heard him curse, knew he was alive, he was okay.

Arthur doesn’t answer, reaching a hand up to gingerly press at the tape, checking Eames’ handiwork maybe. “We don’t need those passports until next week,” he says, apropos of nothing.

“Cobb looked like he needed a rest,” Eames volunteers. “His shoulder was pretty banged up from where he hit the ground when you knocked him out of the way. I took first watch.”

“I never realized you cared so much for Cobb,” Arthur says, and then he flips back the blankets. For a second Eames thinks Arthur’s about to try and get up, which is a terrible idea; then Eames realizes this is actually an invitation for him, which is probably an even worse one. It’s not that they haven’t shared a bed before, but this would be the first time it was for no other purpose than sleeping.

“I hate Cobb,” Eames says, stalling.

“I know you do,” Arthur says, and now his mouth has acquired a slight curve.

“I like you,” Eames adds.

“So I gathered from the Florence Nightingale act,” Arthur says, dimpling properly now. “Come on, I’m getting cold under here.”

“You’re oddly cheerful for a man with a grievous head wound,” Eames says, toeing out of his shoes, shucking off his trousers, moving fast so he doesn’t think too much.

“Maybe it worked after all,” Arthur says, shifting over as Eames clambers onto the cot next to him, the frame squeaking in protest, the mattress far too narrow for two grown men. “The kiss.”

Eames wants to reply, but the slump of Arthur’s narrow warm body against his own is powerfully and unexpectedly soporific, shaking loose some fine line of tension he’s been carrying all night unknowing. Arthur smells of disinfectant and adhesive, and faintly still of blood, but under all that he’s Arthur, and Eames has him now.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to Florence Nightingale's epithet "the Lady of the Lamp" (given because she checked on her patients in the night.) Eames is no gentleman, and I think he's probably a terrible nurse too, but it seemed to fit nonetheless.


End file.
